Jamie McMurtagh still continued his rather sidelong gait as he walked
twice daily up State Street to the Old Colony Bank, bearing in a rusty
leathern wallet anything, from nothing to a hundred thousand dollars,
the daily notes and discounts of James Bowdoin's Sons. James Bowdoin
and his father used to watch him occasionally from the window. There
were certain pensioners, mostly undeserving, who knew old Mr.
Bowdoin's hours better than he did himself. It was funny to see old
McMurtagh elbow these aside as he sidelonged up the street. There was
an old drunken longshoreman; and a wood-chopper who never chopped
wood; and a retired choreman discharged for cause by Mr. Bowdoin's
wife; and another shady party, suspected by Mr. James, not without
cause, of keeping in his more prosperous moments a modest
farobank,--all of whom were sure enough of their shilling could they
catch old Mr. Bowdoin in the office alone. If they waylaid him in the
street, it annoyed him a little, and he would give them only
ninepence. It was currently believed by Mr. James and Jamie that there
was a combination among these gentry not to give away the source
whence they derived this modest but assured income. Once there had
been Homeric strife and outcry on the dusty wooden stairs; and Mr.
James had rushed out only in time to see the longshoreman, in a
moment of sober strength, ejecting with some violence a newcomer of
appearance more needy than himself. It was suggested to Jamie by this
that a similar but mutual exclusion might be effected, at least
against the weaker couple of the primal four; but there was an
honorable sense of property among these beggars, and they refused to
fail in respect for each other's vested rights. But Jamie was most
impatient of them, and would sometimes attempt to hold the
counting-room by fraudulent devices, even after the old gentleman
would get down town. It was after an attempt of this sort, ending in
something like a row between Jamie and his master, that the two
Bowdoins, father and son, stood now watching the clerk's progress up
the street. A touch of sulkiness, left by his late down-putting,
affected his gait, which was more crablike than usual.
"An invaluable fellow, after all," said Mr. Bowdoin; "a very Caleb."
"How Dickensy he is!" answered Mr. James, more familiar with the
recent light literature just appearing.
"A perfect bookkeeper! Not an error in twenty years!"
"Do you notice he's rather looking younger?"
"'Tis that little child he's adopted," said the old gentleman. "The
poor fellow's got something to love. All men need that--and even a few
women," he chuckled. Mr. Bowdoin was addicted to portentous cynicism
against the sex, which he wholly disbelieved in.
"The little child--yes," said Mr. James, more thoughtfully. "Do you
know what he wants?"
"He wants?"
"She wants, I mean. Old Jamie came halting up to me yesterday, and
ventured to suggest his Mercy might be invited to the dancing-class
Mrs. Bowdoin is having for the children."
"Whew!" said Mr. Bowdoin. "The old lady'll never stand it."
"Never in the world," said Mr. James.
"Upon my word, I don't know why not, though!"
"I'm afraid she does, though!"
"I'll ask her, anyhow. And, James, if I don't get to the office
to-morrow, I'll write you her answer."
"And have me tell poor Jamie," laughed Mr. James.
"Well," said Mr. Bowdoin hastily, "you can say it's my letter--I'm
late at the bank"--
The old gentleman hurried off; but his prediction proved well founded.
Whether Mrs. Bowdoin had noticed the effect of pretty Mercedes upon
young Harley, her grandson, or whether the claims of the pirate's
daughter to social equality with the descendants of Salem
privateersmen were to be negatived, she promptly replied that
questions of social consideration rested with her alone. Mr. Bowdoin
accepted the decision with no surprise; what pretty Miss Mercy said is
unknown; but Jamie actually treated his employers for some weeks with
an exaggerated deference in which there was almost a touch of sarcasm.
"Poor old Jamie!" said Mr. James to his father. "How he adores the
child!"
McMurtagh was not five years older than himself,--he may have been
forty at this period; but his little rosy face was prematurely
wrinkled, and his gait was always so odd, and he had no young friends
about town, nor seemed ever to have had any youth.
Meantime Miss Mercy went on with her piano. She was graduated from
the high school the next year, and then had nothing else to do. The
same year, Master Harley went to college. And there occurred a thing
which gave rise to much secret consultation among the Bowdoins.
For every morning, upon the appearance of Mr. James, or more usually
upon the later advent of Mr. Bowdoin, old Jamie would get off his high
stool, where for many minutes he had made no entries upon the books
(indeed, the entries already were growing fewer every year), and come
with visible determination into the main office. There, upon being
asked by Mr. Bowdoin what he wanted, he would portentously clear his
throat; then, on being asked a second time, he would suddenly fall to
poking the fire, and finally respond with some business question, an
obvious and laborious invention of the moment.
"It's either Mercy or his accounts," said Mr. James to his father.
"His accounts--are sure to be all right," said the old gentleman. "Try
him on the little lady."
So the next day, to Jamie, Mr. James, just as his mouth was open
about the last shipment from Bordeaux:--
"Well, what is it, Jamie? Something about Miss Mercedes?"
"It's na aboot the lassie, but I'm thinkin' young Master Harleston is
aye coming to tha hoose abune his needs," said Jamie, taken off his
guard, in broadest Scotch. And he mopped his face; the conflict
between love and loyalty had been exhausting.
"Harley Bowdoin? Dear me!" cried Mr. James. "How far has it gone?"
"It canna go too far for the gude o' the young man," said Jamie
testily. "But I was bound to tell ye, and I ha' done so."
"Does he go to your house,--Salem Street?"